


Like Veins Without a Heart

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blowjobs, Facials, M/M, Sexual Experimentation, Somnophilia, Stiles Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With everything that's happened in Stiles' life this past year, Derek rejecting him feels like the last straw. College is the perfect way to escape Beacon Hills; sex seems to be the only foolproof way to also escape his own mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Veins Without a Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Check the end notes for more specific and elaborate warnings.

Stiles’ mom dying used to be the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

That was before he’d seen so many people dead or dying that he’d lost count (off the top of his head: Laura; the school bus driver; Derek, multiple times; the mechanic; most harrowing of all, the cops that night at the station). Before he’d watched Peter burn to near-death and then get his throat slashed – worse, before he’d _helped_ burn Peter to near-death. Before someone got crushed to death in front of his eyes while he was paralyzed, incapacitated, unable to look away. Before being the reason that his dad lost his job, the second-most important thing left in his life. Before he was abducted and beaten up; before watching Scott kill Gerard, before watching Peter and Derek kill Jackson.

Before all that, the death of his mom was the worst thing that had ever happened to Stiles.

(It still hurts, of course, but it hurts less. Not only does time heal all wounds, but fresh wounds also make older wounds hurt a hell of a lot less. Who knew?)

Not that _everything_ that’s happened in his life this past year – Christ, it’s only been a year, less than a year – has been bad. He’s made new friends. He’s won a lacrosse game almost single-handedly. He’s finally gotten over Lydia. He’s even had his first kiss; not the way he’d ever imagined it, blood-slick and kind of rushed and with a guy, with Derek of all people, but. There have been good things.

(Still, when Stiles thinks about the past year he thinks _dying, dead, dying, dead, death, death, death_.)

 

Deciding where to go for college is difficult. Part of him wants to get as far away from Beacon Hills as possible. Away from the hospital where his mom died and the graveyard where she’s buried, from the high school he almost didn’t make it through, from the burned-down Hale house where he kind-of-but-not-really killed a man. Away from his dad, to take some of the weight off his shoulders. Away from Scott, who’s still trying to adapt to the werewolf life while explaining everything to his mother, making up with Allison, bonding with Isaac.

Part of him wants to stay. Stay for the places that remind him of his mom and the places that shaped a kid into (sort of) a man; stay for the ruins where he kissed Derek, with blood on their tongues and dirt on their hands and splinters scraping against the skin of his lower back. Stay for his dad who loves him despite everything; stay for Scott who needs him even when he doesn’t realize he does.

(Part of him wants to stay for Derek.)

Deciding where to go for college is difficult, especially with the taste and feel and smell of Derek still so fresh in his memory. It makes his stomach curl with excitement whenever his thoughts drift away from the unorganized pile of transcripts, reference letters, personal statements, scholarship essays, and empty envelopes on the kitchen table. The memory of Derek’s breath hitching when Stiles pushed him back against the wall and pressed their mouths together in adrenalin-fueled courage. The memory of pulling back a little to gauge Derek’s reaction, of being surprised to find him smiling softly, with his eyes half-lidded and his lips glistening.

 

Deciding where to go for college is made surprisingly easy when Derek stops by.

(Derek let his fingertips glide across the papers. They lingered on the Berkeley logo.

“I already finished my application for UCLA,” Stiles said. “I’m still contemplating Davis, but—”

“Have you considered NYU?” Derek cut in, not meeting his eyes. “North Carolina, maybe? Or Florida?”

Stiles snorted. “What, you want me gone or something?” It was supposed to be a joke, but Derek’s jaw flexed and he looked down at the floor. Stiles’ stomach curled with nausea. “Derek?”)

 

* * *

 

 

Senior year isn’t great. The pack still tries to involve him in stuff. Stiles ends up spending most of his time with Lydia, though. He takes up the empty slot Jackson left in her life; she takes up the empty slot Scott is leaving in his. Neither of them are all right but when they’re side by side both of them find it a little less hard to breathe. Sometimes they don’t even speak much. They watch a lot of movies and TV series. They work their way through all existent seasons of _Supernatural_ so fast that they get an email from Netflix about it. They always keep an ear out for each other, touching hands whenever the breathing of the other gets too shallow or too fast.

UCLA offers Stiles a place. So does UC Davis. (His grades have dropped too low for Berkeley to want him.) He accepts the offer from the University of Michigan.

His dad says he’ll miss him, but Stiles can see the relief in his eyes. Scott is hanging out with Isaac when Stiles texts him the news; he doesn’t get a reply until twelve hours later. He doesn’t even bother telling Derek. It’s been ages since the last time he saw him.

 

* * *

 

 

Michigan is coldish in more ways than one and overflowing with people he doesn’t know. He Skype-calls Lydia, who’s at Harvard, every other day. Scott texts him a few times. Mostly it’s hell until Stiles meets a girl named Kali in his Introduction to Psychology class. She’s quite a few years older than him. She’s beautiful, achingly so, in a way that Lydia never was; she’s mysterious but differently from Derek. They study together a few times. She gives him his second kiss. Further into the semester she teaches him how to touch a girl, how to put on a condom properly. The first time they have sex he feels something unwind in his throat and for some reason he thinks of Derek. The lump in his throat returns almost as soon as it’s over, which is embarrassingly quickly. “We’ll work on that,” Kali says, with a laugh.

Kali has a friend, Cora. She teaches Stiles how to go down on a girl. Cora is wilder than Kali, more adventurous, more dominant. The lump in his throat stays away longer with her, longer still with her and Kali both. One night, when he’s on his back with Kali on top and Cora playfully holding his wrists captive above his head while she kisses him, the lump stays away for quite a while.

 

When Stiles turns twenty-one, Cora takes him to Deucalion’s to celebrate. He’s heard of the club but he doesn’t really know what to expect. What he doesn’t expect is to end up on the couch in the office upstairs, naked from the waist down in the lap of the owner. He hasn’t even had his first legal drink yet.

“You’re sure about this, right, kid?” the man asks a few times, and every time he asks – the deep dark rumble of his voice, the rasp of his calloused palms across Stiles’ skin, the scrape of stubble against Stiles’ throat and the burn of thick fingers inside him – Stiles’ stomach twists a little with some undefinable desire. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he knows that he wants it. He nods, says, “I want, I want,” and the man chuckles lowly and pushes in.

It hurts, it hurts, unbearably so at first, even though the man prepped him well and takes it slow; but it also feels _good_ , better than anything, better than it has ever felt with Cora or Kali, especially when the man gently repositions him onto his hands and knees so he can pant into Stiles’ ear and squeeze his neck with every thrust. It’s so much better than anything he’s ever experienced before that the lump in his throat stays away for an entire day.

 

Deucalion introduces him to these two guys who are brothers, twins. They’re neither beautiful like Lydia nor mysterious like Derek. They have easy smiles and they move confidently, almost arrogantly, but they’re also laid-back and patient and kind. They worship Stiles, in some way, and no one ever has before. Ethan asks, “May I?” the first time he kisses Stiles, on one of the beds in the off-campus apartment their too-rich parents bought for them; he puts his hands on either side of Stiles’ jaw, almost tenderly holding him in place. Aiden’s thigh is warm against Stiles’ but he doesn’t initiate anything. Stiles is the one to thread their fingers together. He makes out with Aiden while Ethan sucks him off. Afterwards he strokes them off one after the other. It’s not enough to make the lump dissolve, but it’s enough to make it just a little easier to breathe.

They fool around like this for a while. Ethan and Aiden pick him up in their convertible after his class is over. They laugh and call him a delusional Californian when Stiles complains about the wind but Aiden shrugs out of his jacket without hesitation, wraps it around Stiles’ shoulders in return for a kiss. The three of them exchange their STD tests for inspection by the others. Ethan quizzes Stiles on his Abnormal Psychology exam while Stiles is stretched out on their couch with his feet in Aiden’s lap; Aiden explains chi-square to him one morning over breakfast. At first they don’t even have sex all that often. When they do, Stiles always feels like the twins are holding back somehow. The lump in his throat grows again.

One evening Ethan can’t get Stiles out of his too-tight T-shirt, and Stiles groans, “No, it’s fine, leave it,” when his arms get trapped behind his back. Aiden chokes on a moan; his fingers clench around Stiles’ chin hard enough to bruise as he comes. Stiles struggles against the hand fisted into his hair so he can lick Aiden’s dick clean. His shoulders and his scalp are burning and he has to blink frantically to keep some of the jizz from dripping into his eyes. His stomach twists and curls warmly, and a prickling heat surges through him when Ethan nudges Aiden out of the way, slides the tip of his dick in-between Stiles’ come- and spit-slick lips.

With everyone sated, they lie back on one of the beds to catch their breath, Stiles with his cheek squashed against Ethan’s chest and Aiden stretched out against his back. (The twins never really touch each other except in a brotherly way, which Stiles is kind of glad about; it’s not like he’s one to talk about sexual preferences, but he’s unabashedly into their intense focus on him.) “Was that all right?” Ethan asks, combing his fingers through Stiles’ hair. He’s grown out the buzz cut. Deucalion preferred him with hair long enough to pull at, and Stiles found out he liked it better that way too. Plus, Scott used to buzz it for him. It was kind of their thing.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. His voice sounds slightly hoarse; he’s getting better at deep-throating. “More than okay. I actually like it when— I like it rough.”

Aiden, whose warm hand is drawing patterns on Stiles’ stomach, snorts and begins to hum the Lady Gaga song. Ethan chuckles too and drags Stiles’ head back for a kiss. The angle is awkward but Ethan’s other hand curves around his throat like a collar, tight and heavy. Stiles’ entire body shudders.

There’s no more holding back after that conversation. Ethan is the first to fuck him, on a Friday night, face-down on the bed with Aiden next to them, touching Stiles all over, drinking in his every expression with hungry eyes, licking into his mouth until Stiles goes so boneless with lust that all he can do is breathe, breathe, breathe. Deep, untroubled breaths. It’s been a while since the last time he did this with Deucalion, and it burns a little. After Ethan finishes, Aiden flips Stiles onto his back and just rubs off between his clenched thighs until they both come even though Stiles begs, literally begs, for Aiden to fuck him too.

One afternoon early in the summer break, Aiden takes Stiles from behind while Ethan thrusts into his mouth. It feels dirty, fantastic, overwhelming. Stiles is the first to come. He’s so overstimulated that it takes him ages afterwards to catch his breath, but in a good way, not in the my-throat-is-closed-up-and-I-can’t-breathe-for-no-reason-whatsoever way. The twins hold and stroke and murmur him through it. When he’s good to go again, Ethan and Aiden switch places. They film it, send it to Deucalion. The lump in Stiles’ throat stays away as many days as his neck and palms and knees ache.

No matter how great it is with both of them at the same time, there’s this one evening when Stiles comes home after class, worn out from a night with the twins and a long day at the university. He flops down on his bunk bed. Before he can fall asleep, though, there’s a knock on the door.

“C’mon in,” he yells without raising his head.

He doesn’t know whether it’s Aiden or Ethan; they look too much alike for him to be able to tell from this angle, and he’s so tired, and to be entirely honest he just really doesn’t care.

“Is your roommate not home?” Ethan or Aiden asks, locking the door behind him. Stiles shakes his head. He doesn’t bother getting up or even moving. The mattress dips when Aiden or Ethan sits down; broad hands slide up and down Stiles’ back, warming his neck, massaging his shoulders. Stiles drifts off for a while, wakes again with a start.

“You can fuck me if you want,” he murmurs into the pillow.

Ethan or Aiden presses a kiss to the spot behind his ear. “You’re exhausted.”

“Please,” Stiles mumbles, lifting his hips so that he can fumble his pants open and push them down. “I want you to.”

“Okay,” Aiden or Ethan murmurs, sliding one hand underneath his shirt and helping him get rid of his jeans with the other. Stiles lets one of his legs dangle off the bed. He’s still a little loose and wet from this morning, and he keeps lube and condoms in his nightstand drawer, so it’s not long until Ethan or Aiden is languidly sliding in and out of him, bracing himself with his tanned, muscled forearms on either side of Stiles’ head. He moans with every thrust. Stiles allows his eyes to slip shut from time to time. The sex is a lot more vanilla than he usually likes it, but it’s strangely comforting. The fact that he doesn’t really know who’s fucking him and holding him and kissing him back to sleep afterwards – there’s something about it that makes his toes curl.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles has met up with Lydia almost every break since they started both college; his dad stopped by to take him out for dinner a handful of times, and even Scott showed up once, unplanned. Stiles has managed to avoid going home three years in a row, citing unpaid internships or vague plans with friends.

The only reason why he goes home again is because he got grazed by a car leaving Deucalion’s late at night. It could’ve been a lot worse; his forearms and elbows are covered in cuts and scrapes, his ribs are all banged-up and he’s got a splitting headache. He struggled hard to stay conscious long enough to tell the arriving paramedics that, “I’m fine, I’m fine, seriously, I’m fine, I don’t need help, I’m okay,” but he passed out in the ambulance. When he comes to, the hospital has already called his emergency contact. It’s a six-hour flight from Beacon Hills to Michigan. They keep him twelve hours for observation, to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion or internal bleeding. Stiles blinks a few times and suddenly his dad is seated by his bedside, red-eyed and old-looking.

It’s summer break and Stiles is too tired to think of an excuse to stay in Michigan. Returning to Beacon Hills feels like suffocating. Lydia’s doing an internship in New York. All the pack members are still around. Scott and Allison are apparently engaged and living together now. Stiles hides in his father’s house until the headache subsides and most of his bruises are gone.

 

He almost literally runs into Derek in the grocery store parking lot. Derek doesn’t even seem to recognize him at first, but when Stiles tries to slip away between two cars, he goes, “Stiles?”, frowning and wrinkling up his nose as though he’s smelling something awful. His voice is higher than Stiles remembers.

“Hi, bye,” Stiles says awkwardly, grimacing his way to his jeep – his good old jeep, he’s missed it so much – at a pace that doesn’t agree with his battered ribs. He slides into the driver’s seat and tries to draw in air. It’s not enough. It’s so fucking hard to breathe in Beacon Hills.

Derek appears, taps on the window. Stiles contemplates driving away, but he’s too tired and he hasn’t caught his breath yet. He rolls the window down.

“What do you want,” he says, wheezing out the _want_.

Derek leans on his car door with his forearms. “What happened to you?” he asks softly, tenderly.

“Got hit by a car,” Stiles says. “It happens.”

Derek shakes his head. “No. Before that.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles’ throat closes up. He feels like he can’t breathe. Every intake of air is a surprise. It’s all in his head, he knows that, but still.

“You know what I mean, Stiles,” Derek says. “You smell like…” His face contracts.

“Like _what_ , Derek?”

“Like anger and despair and—” Derek hesitates. “Like men, like…”

“Like _sex_ , Derek? Like good, hard, rough sex?”

Derek actually flinches.

“Like people might actually have _wanted_ me the past few years?” Stiles continues. He scoffs. “What a surprise, eh?”

Derek stares at him. “What happened to you?” he asks again, much quieter this time.

Something in Stiles’ chest snaps.

“You happened, Derek,” he spits out. “ _You_ happened to me.”

Derek winces. “You don’t mean that.”

“No, I do. You know what? I really, really do. Everything that went wrong in my life happened— it happened since _you_ appeared, Derek.” He wanted to say _because of you_ , but even in his rage he knows that isn’t fair. It wasn’t Derek’s fault that Scott got bitten; it wasn’t Derek’s fault that Peter murdered Laura. But still, but still. “Before I met you, the worst thing that had ever happened to me was my mom dying. And now, now I can’t even remember _what that felt like_. I barely even remember how much it hurt. Because _you_ came along with your stupid fucking werewolf issues and your stupid fucking _uncle_ who I had to _murder_ and then fucking watch come back to life—”

He punches the steering wheel. The cuts on his palm split open. He curses, clutches his hand to his chest. His chest aches. He squeezes his eyes shut and the next time he opens them Derek has slid into the passenger seat. His hand is hovering over Stiles’ shoulder.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” Stiles snarls at him, reeling back. “Don’t you fucking dare, not after telling me you don’t want me, not after _everything_ —”

“Stiles,” Derek says evenly. “That was more than four years ago.”

Stiles huffs out a joyless laugh. “How is that supposed to make a difference? What, you want me now? Is that what you’re here to tell me, huh?”

“I never didn’t want you,” Derek says, staring at his hands.

“You literally said that to me. You _literally_ told me—”

“Stiles,” Derek says. He looks wrecked. “Listen to me. I’m sorry that I hurt you, but I was in a really bad place four years ago. I was— I was high on my new powers, I hadn’t had time to deal with Laura’s death yet, I had a pack that didn’t trust me, I was homeless. Fucking hell, the last person I’d slept with was the woman who killed my entire family. I was in no place for…” His voice trails off. They’re both quiet for a while.

“You could’ve told me,” Stiles says thickly. It’s as though his throat is swollen; he touches it, but it feels normal. “I would’ve…”

Derek shakes his head. “I made a lot of mistakes. I hope you can forgive me. I hope we can—”

“What, Derek, we can what? You’re not seriously gonna tell me you expect me to drop everything, to just—”

“I don’t expect anything from you.”

Stiles scoffs. “Nothing at all?”

“Nothing at all,” Derek confirms.

Stiles glances at him. Derek is still achingly beautiful. Of course he is. Instead of mysterious and angry, though, he seems relaxed now, self-assured. There’s no longer a permanent scowl etched into his face. It’s been four years, but he looks younger than he does in Stiles’ memory.

“You look good,” Stiles says. He means for it to sound begrudging, maybe (he’s not quite sure), but it comes out soft, genuine.

“So do you.”

Stiles looks at his scraped-up palms. “Thanks.”

“Everyone misses you. Your dad, Erica, Scott most of all.”

Stiles’ chest aches. He ignores it, ignores the remark. “You never contacted me,” Stiles says. “Not even when I was still here. Our last year of high school, I didn’t see you once.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Derek’s head clench into a fist. “I told you, I was fucked-up. I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“We were all fucked-up. Everything was fucked-up.”

Derek nods. “I thought you needed space. When you left for college— we all thought you needed space, Stiles. We thought you wanted to be away from all this, to figure out what you wanted from life, to experience new things, different things, to…”

“To breathe,” Stiles says quietly.

“Yeah.”

Stiles reaches for Derek’s face, and Derek leans into his touch. Despite everything, their kiss doesn’t feel wrong. It’s slow, gentle. With Kali or Cora, with Deucalion, even with Ethan or Aiden it wouldn’t have been enough to make the lump in Stiles’ throat dissolve. With Derek, though, somehow, for some reason, it is.

**Author's Note:**

> The Ethan/Stiles/Aidan pairing does not involve incest. There's a scene between Stiles and Deucalion. Everything Stiles does is consensual and what he wants, but he's emotionally not in a great place throughout the story. Please don't view this/any of my writing as a how-to guide for a successful sex life, healthy attitudes to sex, etc. There are websites for that, I'm sure, but AO3 is not one of them. 
> 
> [These pictures](http://teenwolf.tumblr.com/post/43898125524/its-hard-becoming-a-teen-wolf) were the main reason why I felt the urge to write about the twins, but on some level my portrayal of them must have been shaped by [this fantastic piece by helenish](http://helenish.tumblr.com/post/43925992241/goddamnit).
> 
> Come find me [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com) if you enjoy receiving random asks and/or ogling gifs of Dylan O'Brien with useless tag commentary.


End file.
